Murder Came Second (29 page)

As I drank my eleven o’clock coffee, I recalled the old Einstein anecdote explaining relativity. An hour, he said, felt like a minute when you were leaning against the garden wall talking with a pretty girl. A minute felt like an hour when you accidentally backed up against a hot wood stove.

At the moment, time seemed to be racing and standing still simultaneously. The players were going full tilt toward Sunday, when they would present their murderous drama. The town was making ready for an influx of playgoers. We all wondered just who the killer might really be. And was he or she dangerous in any way that would further affect any of us? Did one killing end it, or were others in danger?

The actors all seemed as sane as they ever had, which wasn’t saying much. But one of them just about had to be guilty. Which one of them would be out there on stage secretly giggling, “I got away with it! She’s dead and they haven’t the foggiest idea that I’m the one! And even if they do, they can’t prove it.” Sunday seemed to loom closer by the minute.

It seemed to be taking an ice age to put together any kind of viable case.

Where was the silver? Where were the boots, the raincoat and hat? Why was there no blood in any of the drains at the Brownlees’? The killer
had
to have needed a serious washup after his/her attack.

How could the entire group have slept so well on that particular night? They’d certainly gone out of their ways to explain why they all slept so deeply! Were their stories preplanned? Could Dr. Gloetzner be right? If they hadn’t all participated in Terese’s death, had they all at least agreed to it and selected one of their braver number actually to do the deed? And who would that be? Blustering Hamlet? Quiet, chubby Nick? Big, strong, good-natured Noel? Tense and jangled Paul? Hotheaded Teri? Deeply angry Elaine? The ubiquitous transient? And there were other questions.

Who had deleted all the data on Terese’s laptop computer? Had she done it herself for some reason? Had the murderer done it? And when? And would Nacho ever be able to salvage anything from the hard drive? Her faxes—all gone. Had she scrapped them? Hidden them somewhere?

My bet was Elaine. Her room was next to Terese’s. She would have known when Terese was in or out. The locks were flimsy. A screwdriver would have easily popped any of them. She could have taken the faxes and tossed them in a trashcan almost anywhere.

Only one fax was available. It had come in early Wednesday afternoon, long after Terese had ceased to care, from her assistant, reading, “Got it pretty well nailed here. Going north now. (signed) Willie.” The number traced back to a motel outside Philadelphia, where no one named Willie or William or Bill or whatever, had been registered.

I knew that one of Sonny’s unofficial chores today was to chase down the editor of the
A-List
, who had been unavailable yesterday. Among Sonny’s many questions would be: who and where was Willie?

And when would Sonny have the DNA data from the semen from the state lab? He wanted definitive information in hand before he confronted Carlucci and/or Hamlet.

But one thing Sonny had accomplished last night was pure genius. Word was out that the media had lost one of its own, no matter how obnoxious, and the vultures were circling. Sonny had convinced Chief Franks to appoint Captain Anders Press Officer for the duration of the case. He had persuaded the chief that Anders would keep the nosy reporters so busy and confused, they’d be glad to leave the cops alone to do their jobs.

I was still smiling over various imaginary Anders vs. Media scenarios, when Fargo ran to the back door, barking. Looking up, I saw Marvin Goldstein peering in the back door, with someone standing behind him. Marvin was the forensics guru, a slight man always nattily dressed and looking more like an affable CPA than a man who reveled in drops of blood, fibers in strange places and fingerprints at odd angles. Behind him was a woman with a lovely not-quite-young face, a gorgeous cap of curly hair and a build that told me she’d have trouble getting into tight corners before too long.

As I shushed Fargo, the two came into the kitchen. “Hi, Alex, beautiful day out there! Meet my assistant, Arlene.”

“Hello, Arlene, nice to meet you. How’s it going, Marvin? What can I do for you? You two out bumming coffee and I’m the closest place to invade? You’re in luck. I just made some.”

“Well, maybe later.” Marvin looked slightly ill at ease. “Right now we need to check the drains plus your rugs and upholstered items and clothing.”

“What?” I was on my feet, rather towering over the two technicians, who might have been shrinking slightly under my roar. “You think Cindy or I killed Terese? Maybe it was a neighborhood effort. Maybe we all got together. Have you checked every house on the damn block? You better have, or they’ll be taking your bodies out of here in a small shopping bag!”

“Now, Alex.” Marvin spread his hands placatingly. “It’s just routine. You did know her and had reason to dislike her. And that whole acting crew was here right afterward.”

“Aha! Do you figure one of them came in covered in blood and asked to use the shower and the washing machine? Don’t you think Cindy or I might have considered that a little odd?”

“Actually, Alex, we think it’s pretty silly, too,” Arlene added, “But Captain Anders ordered it, and we really don’t have much choice.”

I smiled at her sweetly. “May I see your warrant, please?”

Arlene studied the floor, the table, the ceiling as if wondering just where she had placed that pesky warrant. “Well, to tell the truth . . . well, Captain Anders said you’d understand.”

“Oh, I do, completely.” I set my mug down. “I understand that Anders is the biggest fool this town can claim. You have entered my home and attempted a search without a proper warrant. Go back and tell Captain Asshole I am suing the Ptown PD for illegal entry, harassment, false accusation, threatening an illegal search and frightening my dog.” Fargo, sensing danger—or at least agitation—was now in my chair, nudging me furiously to get rid of these people. “Good-bye, Marvin. Nice to have met you, Arlene. Next time we’ll have the coffee.”

They sidled out, and then Arlene stuck her head back in. “I’m a tea drinker.”

“Good, me too.” I grinned.

She winked and was gone. I knew I was going to like her.

I couldn’t stay mad at Marvin or Arlene. Anders was a captain. He gave an order. They went. But I could sure lay him out in spades, and loudly, the next time I saw him.

In my imagination, I had him backed up against a file cabinet in his office . . . “You featherbrained moron, sending people into my house with no consent to search and no warrant. When my lawyer gets through with you I’ll own your house and all those stocks you’re always buying! My lawyer will—” The phone rang.

“Hello.”

Sonny’s voice sounded almost lyrical as he sang, “Oh, what a loverly morning. Oh, what a perfect new da-a-ay!”

“You solved the case!” I squealed.

“Not quite. But God’s in His Heaven! It’s looking better for Harmon. Meet me at the park by the bank, and bring Cindy, she’ll love this! See you in fifteen.” As he banged the phone down, I heard him murmuring to himself, “Sometimes it is so good!”

I couldn’t wait. It was about time something good happened! I called Cindy and told her to meet us in the park. She was as happy as I. This murder was getting us all down.

I freshened up by tossing some water at my face and a brush at my hair. On the way out of the yard I broke off two rather overblown roses and took them along.

At the park, Fargo, Cindy and I waited for Sonny. When he came from the parking area, we ran up to him. We then went backward along in front of him, bent over, tossing rose petals in front of where he walked. Fargo helped by barking and jumping at him. Sonny smiled, nodded from side to side and made gracious little bows, hands outstretched. Most people grinned at our antics. The lone killjoy snapped, “Are you all crazy in this town?”

“Yes!” We laughed all the harder.

We found an empty bench. Cindy and Sonny sat on that, while Fargo and I settled for the grass . . . well, we didn’t have to go back to work. “Speak, genius,” I directed Sonny.

“Oh, I did nothing special. But here’s what happened. I heard the whole thing. My office door just happened to be open.” He gave me a syrupy smile. “This morning a fellow came in the front and asked to speak to the detective handling the Segal case. Mitch was out, Anders was in, so the lucky man was turned over to him.”

Sonny took a generous swallow of a soda he had with him. “He said his name was Webster Dermott, from Meriden, Connecticut, where his wife and he own a real estate business. She was at a realtor’s seminar in Boston and would join him here tomorrow. Average looking man, well dressed, around fifty, I’d say. He was staying at the Voyager Motel. Anders had been giving him bored, polite nods, until Mr. Dermott began to hem and haw a little bit. Finally, even Anders realized he was holding something back and closed in on him.”

I pointed a finger at Sonny. “Don’t tell me. Anders finally has his transient!”

“His transient plus Ptown’s most unlikely local!” He laughed. “Mr. Dermott backed and filled and eventually got it out that he had literally run into a lady while making a purchase in a liquor store last night. Apologies and conversation ensued, and she came back to his room for a drink. And whatever. About three a.m. he was looking out the window of their darkened room, waiting for her to finish dressing so he could drive her home, when he saw a car with no lights pull into the parking area and go up to the dumpster parked back behind the restaurant.”

He lit a cigarette and graciously offered one to me. Did that one count? Was it one of the five I allowed myself daily, if I didn’t initiate the smoke? I thought not!

“Next Dermott saw someone tall and, he thinks, rather slim, get out of the car, reach in the backseat and pull out two cardboard cartons, which he put in the dumpster, and then drove away. The person, by the way, had on a regular tan raincoat, some kind of hat or cap, and may have been barefoot.”

“Carlucci, Hamlet or Elaine,” Cindy breathed.

“That would be my guess.” He nodded. “Anyway, Dermott took the lady home and came back to the motel. He said the cartons bothered him. Of course, we all know people put things in dumpsters that aren’t theirs, mostly harmless junk that won’t fit in their own garbage cans, but Dermott said these got to him for some reason. He kept worrying there might be a baby in one of the boxes. Maybe even alive. He couldn’t bear the thought that it might survive if only he would do something about it.”

“Decent man,” I said.

“Yes. He sneaks out to the dumpster, climbs up and manages to wrestle the cartons out. Seeing they do not hold a child, but various silver items—and apparently he knows enough to realize they are expensive pieces—he takes them to his room, catches a little sleep and brings them to the station this morning.”

“Did he ID the car?”

“No, he’s not into cars. It was a dark color, period. So, at this point, I badly wanted to look at that dumpster, while poor Dermott was stuck with an increasingly suspicious Anders. So I drove over there, and my timing was perfect! Pulling into the Voyager right in front of me was the truck bringing in an empty dumpster to replace the full one! And guess what was lying right on top, ready to be carted away?”

“What?”

“Harmon’s boots. At least I assume they’re his.” Sonny looked happier than I had seen him in days. But he wasn’t finished. “Harmon’s boots stuffed with torn up faxes!

“And since whoever put them there was tall and slender, that eliminates our five-foot-nine, rotund Harmon. Thank God! I take it Marvin and Arlene are deep in the odiferous dumpster and the smelly boots, looking for prints.”

“Yeah, why?” He looked confused.

I told him of their visit and he laughed. Nothing was going to bother him today.

We sat in silent satisfaction, until I remembered a question I’d been meaning to ask. “Oh, Sonny, any news on George Hoskins, or the kids?”

He shrugged irritably. “All a lot of nothing. The kids are with their mother having a ball. We had a local police car check Hoskins’s house in Connecticut. He was at the kitchen table, curled around a bottle of Seagram’s, so hammered he couldn’t even talk. They took his car keys and put him to bed.”